


the man with the long black hair

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: Pearly's Preklok Fics [22]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: CSA, Childhood Trauma, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, Gen, Kidnapping, Pedophilia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: running through the parking lot he chased me and he wouldn't stoptag you're ittag tag you're it





	the man with the long black hair

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to put this right here. If you couldn't stomach "Salo", you probably won't survive this. The depictions of sexual assault in this aren't super graphic (because I ain't comfortable with that) but the content is still dark and possibly triggering. This is not for any sexual gain on my part, before you ask.

She passed three dollars to the ice cream man. Chocolate with chocolate sprinkles, the way she liked it. Her nose got stuck in the cold dessert. She wiped it on her wrist. Tongue, lips, teeth, all of them were just parts of her body. And yet, that very day, they were a curse. She wished she were a mannequin or a dead person. It hurt.

Not yet, of course. At the time she was just enjoying a delicious ice cream. It was sweet and tasty and the sun was shining. And then he drove by.

The man with the long, black hair.

He was grimy and ugly. And he stared at her, with her Powerpuff Girls backpack and her ice cream and her happy smile. And her pink striped socks, and her mary janes, and her rosy cheeks, and the heavy innocence she carried behind her. Soft milky skin and long eyelashes. Her jumper wasn't long enough and the blouse underneath dipped too close to her chest. And she was too coquettish and lead him on, it was all her fault.

He drove by her, rolling down his window. And his long black hair hung out just above her head.

"Hey there kid." He grinned. "You seem like a good girl. I've got all the ice cream you could possibly want in my car."

And she was so dumb.

"Really?"

"Yeah, what's your name?"

"Katharina! Is there really ice cream in there? Can I have some?"

"There's all sorts of wonderful things in there. We'll have so much fun together, you and me."

"Wonderful things?"

"There's chocolate and candy, and tons of games we can play."

"Can I come in?"

"Of course you can. Hop in the back."

She hopped up and down, crawling up onto the backseat. "Here's a little candy for you."

"This looks like pills."

"It's hard candy. I bought it in Europe."

"...Is that where England is?"

"It sure is." 

"Ooooh..." Candy from Europe sure did look weird. Turns out, it was pills all along.

-

The man with the long black hair wasn't very nice. He didn't give her chocolate or candy or ice cream. They didn't play any games, or at least, none that she liked all that much. She barely even moved. She barely even ate. She barely even survived.

There was a lot of hurting. The man with the long black hair had friends. They put stuff inside of her. Everywhere. There was always blood and it stung. She would puke and cry and they'd laugh or yell at her. They'd yell because it hurt. For the first time she really wished she was dead, like her grandma, or her brother's pet fish. Sometimes she would disobey the man with the black hair when he held a knife to her throat, but he'd never kill her. He'd never let her die.

It hurt.

It hurt.

She never tried to run. When she did they'd just get angry. Her nose was bloody. She saw herself in the reflection of a puddle of blood and piss and tears, and she was so broken that her face was nearly unrecognizable.

They'd always say it. "Who's your daddy?" She hated it. "Who's your daddy?" She already had a father, and he was kind and good and he wasn't there. Just darkness, and the man with the long black hair, and the low light. It was all the same. It had been so long, and yet, she couldn't ever tell what time it was. It could have been three days, or three years. She felt dirty and ugly and empty. And she burned and she stung.

"Mornin' Katty."

He'd always greet her that way. She flinched, instinctively, unsure of whether he'd smack her or pat her head. "I brought somethin' real fun with me today." She backed away, not wanting to look him in the eye. "Come on, you little bitch."

"...I'm sorry."

"Shut up and get over here."

"Please don't do anything bad."

"If you don't come over here, I'll burn your ass alive, slut."

She swallowed, shuffling back over with tears running down her red face. "Don't cry already. We ain't even started." He lit up a cigarette. "Hold still for daddy, now. That's a good girl. Lean forward a bit." She bowed her head, letting out barely a squeal when the burning cigarette made contact with her soft, sensitive skin. It was heavily marred with scars and bruises already. "Making sure everyone knows you're mine."

"I din't do nuffin' wrong, don't hurt me!"

"You'll learn to love it."

Her mouth fell open in a loud screech as he held the lighter to her flesh. "Your singing is beautiful."

There was a crash in the distance. She shot up, and so did he. "Fuck. Wait here, if you move an inch I'll slit your fucking throat." She nodded, drawing her knees up to her chest. The basement door fell open and there was a lot of yelling and screaming and loud noises. She covered her ears. 

The police must have been tipped off, somehow, because they just broke down the door. The man with the long black hair was apprehended and she was carried out, naked and bruised and bloody. She couldn't walk and she was hungry and ugly. Her mother was sobbing and her father was grateful. Even her brother was glad. She felt numb. She felt like she could never be normal again, she didn't even know how old she was or what year it was. 

"Katty, we missed you so much."

"Don't call me that."

-

"Lucky you." Terry Whitmore was such a weirdo. So at first, Katharina assumed she was joking. "I wish I could get raped by a hot guy."

"What do you mean?"

"Long, dark hair. Brooding. Domineering! Just like the people they write in romance novels." She always used weird, long words. Sounded like she was trying too hard to be fancy. "Or like... Sid Vicious, or something!"

"But... but Terry, I--"

"Tie me down, make love to me, you know?" Terry was clicking her high-top sneakers together from toe to heel. "I'd let him rape me."

"But it hurt..."

"It's supposed to hurt, stupid." She rolled her eyes. "Vivi James said so! She just had sex for the first time last weekend and everyone's been asking her about it."

"I don't like Vivi James."

"Nobody likes Vivi James, but it doesn't hurt to fake it once in awhile." Katharina clasped her hands together as Terry spoke. "Why haven't you told anybody about this? Sex must've been so cool. If I could get raped by a cool punk guy like that, I'd be able to die happy."

"Stop it."

"What's the matter with you? I bet he was really hot."

"Please, stop."

"Every girl with a brain would want his dick and you're complaining about it." Terry shook her head. "You know how many single girls probably wish they were like you?"

"Please, you don't know what it was like." Katharina could feel tears in her eyes.

"Jesus." There was a moment of silence. "What did it feel like?"

"Stop it already!"

"It's a normal question. Was it... was it big?"

"I don't know!"

"It's not like I'm gonna tell anyone."

"I... it hurt a whole lot..."

"You know you really wanted it." Terry rolled her eyes. "I know I would've."

"It was terrible, and I was starving, and..."

"You're probably overreacting, Katty."

"Please don't call me that, please."

"It's just a name." Terry shrugged. "Katty, Katty, Katty, it ain't hurting nobody." Katharina's chest felt tight and she was having trouble breathing or thinking. "Don't be so dramatic all the time. It's just sex, everyone does it."

Then why did it feel so wrong?

-

Since her two-year imprisonment, Katharina Beau, more commonly known as Trindle, was a changed woman. And she missed him.

The pain and the beatings and the cruelty. She craved the burning and the cutting and the shouting. The rape that she must have really wanted and the agony she longed for. She wanted to be mutilated again, she always wanted it. She wanted to hurt and be hurt.

Her first love in high school was a sophomore named Kendall Arthur. He was broad-shouldered and freckled with chestnut brown hair and beautiful mahogany eyes. He was a sports star and a bit of a meathead. It was alright, though, she didn't need an Einstein or a Newton. All she needed was a Dahmer to make her day. And her heart leapt when he agreed to take her out to the movies. Her, with her slit wrists and puking problems.

He couldn't understand a movie as deep as... whatever it was they were watching. Frankly, Trindle wasn't paying attention. She was too busy tracing the outline of his broad shoulders with her eyes in the dark theater. His freckles were so numerous, she wondered, if the angels truly kissed him, or if they were tiny demon hickeys after all.

The movie ended in what felt like seconds. She pulled him home and got him to her bedroom.

"Come on, big guy, tear me apart."

Sadly, he wasn't what she had hoped. He got nervous. He got gentle. He was a virgin, despite his big talk. His hands shook and he got nervous, and he always asked if things were okay. She didn't cum a single time and left unsatisfied. They laid together.

"How'd I do?" His face was so bright. 

"I don't think you're my type."

Their relations ended there, and she struck up a new one with a punk named Garret Bellevue. He had shaggy dark hair and a piercing gaze. Much skinnier than Kendall, and shorter, too, but also a lot angrier. He had tattoos and piercings by the dozen, and he was a pack-a-day smoker. He even wore makeup. The thought of being ravaged by the tiny little beast made her heart skip a beat each time it came to her mind.

He took her to a Ramones concert with a bottle of vodka on their first date, and ended up too smashed to even get it up. Which was fine, really. Trindle drove him to her house and let him sleep over in his own piss and sick. It was no worse than how she cared for herself, really. But after that night, she swore she'd feel his Prince Albert penetrate the deepest parts of her body, and slice her open, the way she'd imagined it in her dreams. She'd carve his name into her arm if she had to. It was all she could think about all week long. She kept a strand of his leg hair in a locket that hung close to her heart, so he'd always be there.

Later in the week, he took her out to an underground club. Despite how drunk he once again got, she managed to manipulate his weak body enough to make him interested in sex. The two stowed away into a bathroom stall caked with puke and god knows what else. She leaned in, and whispered in his ear.

"Rape me, my friend."

He was sloppy, but fast. Jagged around the edges. Also most likely a virgin, but the nerves were drowned by booze. He was like a jackhammer, shaking all over and spewing spittle across his face. Her whole body felt like it was on fire. She was alive again. Alive! Re-capturing the moment!

"Who's yer daddy..." He grunted, slurring the words through his loose lips.

"You are!"

"Fugh!" He twitched, cumming inside of her. Shit, they forgot protection. Thankfully, Garret's virginal ass wasn't carrying any diseases, but she'd have to see about getting emergency contraception. He was still twitching. Must've been the adrenaline rush.

Something was still missing, though. The cruelty. The lack of consent. She didn't want a date, she just wanted a longterm fuck. And that was okay, right? So she broke it off with Garret, and spoke the complete truth. That he was a fucking pussy and a lightweight and not good enough for her. No shock that he killed himself a month later. Or, maybe, it was just all the heroin he did outside of the school they went to.

Maybe it was the long black hair.

-

Flipping through TV channels, Trindle could feel exhaustion pulling at her eyes. She was hungry and tired, as usual. Regardless, she substituted water for food. It made her look younger. More soft and pale. More like the Katty of yesterday.

Sometimes she'd just sit with music channels on and let the videos play.

"Recently there's been a huuuuge upset in the world of death metal as a brand-new power comes to light."

Trindle considered herself a fan of metal. It was as intrusive as everything else she enjoyed. "A new band called Dethklok just released their first album, and we have an exclusive interview with the band live!" The newscaster turned to five young men. Immediately Trindle began examining their most intimate particulars, like a lion analyzing its potential prey.

The one with the dreads was, obviously, ex-member of Snakes 'n Barrels, Dillon 'Pickles' Schumacher. Trindle would admit that, at SnB's peak, she had a massive crush on Antonio DiMarco Thunderbottom that she'd never speak of. As soon as he turned out to be gay, she just decided to forget about it all. She should have seen it coming, really. Pickles was most likely gay too, or at least, bisexual with a heavy preference to men. (Also he didn't have a bulge, which she questioned, but didn't think too much of. Maybe his dick was just small.)

The lead guitarist was some Swedish douchebag who looked like he had too much plastic surgery. His name was Swiss Bar Swiss Elf or something. She didn't really give a fuck, he looked like the kind of person who'd cry when he got dirt under his nails. The rhythm guitarist was the opposite. Old, ragged, cigarette stains on his leather jacket. If he were a little younger, she'd have fallen for him in a heartbeat. Alas, his face-wrinkles were too much. Then there was the bassist, a baby with a tooth gap who looked like he hadn't washed himself in months. Trindle couldn't imagine raising something that ugly.

Then she saw _him._

Tall. Imposing. Thick-armed. Eyes deep, like emerald caves. Jagged teeth and black-painted nails, standing against his pale, moonlike skin. But most of all, his hair. His long, black hair. The memories came flooding back. The burns and the beatings and the bitings and the pain. The way she was molded into the perfect fucktoy before age 10, her eyes watered with powerful nostalgia. Her whole body felt like it was being swallowed up in time and space. The man with the long black hair. Though he may not have been the same man, he must have had the same dreams, because he had the same gaze. The same harsh, cruel stare.

Her fingers dug just below her miniskirt, drawing her scrawny body to orgasm. 

"Are you Nathan Explosion?"

"Yup."

His voice ripped another climax through her body. She felt alive. She had a purpose, and that purpose was to meet him. Meet the man with the long black hair...

...and finish what they had started.


End file.
